


Emerging Cruel and Victorious

by HarmonicFriction



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: All Hail King Joffrey (not), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Awful romance, Cersei POV, Dominance, F/M, Food Sex, Gluttony, Graphic Sex, Gross, Hypocritical Fat Shaming, Incest, Mother-Son Relationship, Narcissism, Parent/Child Incest, Sadism, Sloppy, lots of issues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-18
Updated: 2015-06-18
Packaged: 2018-04-05 00:51:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4159377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HarmonicFriction/pseuds/HarmonicFriction
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cersei Lannister becomes enamored, more than ever, with her son Joffrey when she realizes how much he resembles his father.  Something stirs in her and she decides she must finally take him away from the Stark girl and bring him back home, home to his mother, the only woman who deserves him.  What she does not allow herself to see is Joffrey's misogynistic cruelty.  Rather, she believes she is immune to the handsome king's sadistically rotten ways.  And she is correct.</p><p>For a small amount of time, at least.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Emerging Cruel and Victorious

**Author's Note:**

> This story is a prelude to what will be my final chapter in "If Not for the Strangler". It is A/U, which is explained in much more detail in that upcoming chapter but long story short, the Lannisters killed a lot of people, and Joffrey has reigned for about 8 years. He is twenty-one years old and has grown crueler, not to mention stupider and lazier. Basically, this is my head canon regarding how he would have turned out if he had lived, and how Cersei would regard his personality. Not at all based in the show canon. 
> 
> I love writing about evil, terrible, slovenly people so here, Internet, have my mental fapping.

 

* * *

_x x x x_

_Mother, oh._  
Everything you did  
before you hit the ground,  
  _I found._  
  
Believe me,  _you need me.  
__I'm_ _mad._

  
-AUSTRA, "Believe Me"

* * *

 PART ONE:

HUNGER

 

Cersei Lannister is not a remorseful woman. Guilt wastes her time and it is trivial, obnoxious. She habitually pounces on any opportunity to satiate her lust, especially now since Jaime is off defending the realm from that dragon-rider, that little horse-fucking Targaryen lizard girl. It has been a year now and her twin has not returned though word flown in from ravens has it he still lives. Cersei is not entirely proud of her overwhelming thirst for instant gratification, yet she is not sorry, either. She feels she deserves a little bit of something. Still, there is a hole in her heart. These wide-eyed Lannister cousins and rough-tongued sellswords are no match for her lover, her brother, her handsome and gallant Jaime. He is the perfect man to Cersei and she is waiting with warm thighs and crossed fingers for him to come back to her unscathed.

She wakes, unwinding her naked body, each morning and she thinks she can smell him on her sheets. She goes to sleep each night, head spinning from the excess of sweet wine, imagining his lush golden curls and proud smile in front of her face. She can see his cocky swinging walk and feel his hands inside her and on her lips, in her hair. Cersei writhes in bed, sometimes under lesser men and sometimes under the pressure of her own fingertips, whimpering and wishing that her Jaime will appear unannounced one day and make this nonsensical world brighter again.

Cersei looks for Jaime everywhere she can. She sees him behind her in mirrors, outside in the rain, in the clouds. She can barely think his name before she is struck with the quick realization, like a hard slap to her cheeks, that these visions are not real. Her Jaime may never return and so she must be strong and think of herself, and of their children. Without Jaime in close range, Cersei imagines she birthed her three precious Lannister lions simply by praying hard for them with all of her heart. She muses on how at times she feels that they were born fully formed and beautiful from her forehead as if she is a God, a magical and mythical mother figure. But like so many things in Cersei's life, her relationship to her children has not turned out quite as planned.

Her youngest boy, Tommen, is a youth of fourteen now. He is perpetually stunned and simple, more than thrilled to occupy his time in the stables where he hides to roll with puppies in the hay or brush the livestock like some commoner, or sketch his favored castle cats with charcoal and paint making a mess of his hands. He appears to hold no affection for girls, or for any human person for that matter. His silly fear of his brother has made him into a bit of a recluse, Cersei notes. He is a quiet animal boy, a nervous sort of cooing pigeon boy. He startles easily and will not sit near the king, even now. He refuses to hunt and will barely speak to the king without stammering embarrassingly, moving apprehensively from foot to foot. Although Cersei has explained to him that his brother grew past skinning cats and strangling dogs  _years_ ago, Tommen will not let go of their differences. It is a shame he cannot be rational.

Myrcella is gone, married off to some high lord in Dorne after Tyrion shipped her away. He said it was for her own good after her impregnation, after that early morning of tears and moon tea. He said that it would keep her safe from Joffrey's so-called abuse (Cersei knows Joff was just playing with Myrcella as she had done with Jaime!). Cersei loved her little princess but they had little in common. She does not see herself in silly, impressionable girls. It is like she always told her father: she may have the beauty and grace of a woman, yet Cersei is determined she would make an effective and powerful man. Anyhow, Cersei used to miss Myrcella but what is done is done. And if she had to choose, she would have rather have her eldest by her side anyhow.

Unfortunately, Joffrey does not seem to feel the same these days. He cares little for his Northern wife and even less for his mother, preferring to keep to his hunts and his whores, the latter of which causes Cersei to reflexively feign deafness.  _At least he does not soil himself by bedding them,_ she tells herself, though by the tales she's heard, Joffrey has some rather frightening fixations when it comes to the brothel. Still, he is her precious firstborn and he has been king now for eight years.  _Eight dark and brilliant years._ She has watched him grow, watched him change. He stands tall, heads over Cersei and Sansa, and is nearly the same height as his hound. He has seen twenty-one Name Days and each year he is crueler and handsomer than the last. Though Cersei wishes he would show more affection to his four children, Joffrey has other ideas and he is quick to remind her he does not need her advisement anymore. This hurts her deeply but she does not protest because his temper is still sharp and hot, and besides, he is a man grown now.

Cersei plays a role from the sidelines instead, feigning coy sweetness with Queen Sansa in order to assist the king. Despite everything, Joffrey still feels some sort of boyish affection for the Stark, and so Cersei is polite, even borders on loving. She smiles kindly at Sansa and strokes her arm or shoulders when they chance to drink tea in the solar or dine together during balls, ignoring the bruised eye or split lip or various other distortions that sometimes appear upon the face of the Tully-haired queen. Joffrey refrained from hitting his lady for a few years before it seemed he could hold off no longer. Sansa is still very beautiful, though Cersei has noted that she looks tired recently. She closes her eyes often and speaks with carefully-chosen words. Cersei is no fool. She knows that her son and Sansa do not have a perfect marriage but she wishes to help Joffrey to be as satisfied with his life as possible.

It is with that pure wish that Cersei comes to Sansa with the aim to benefit the two of them to better the realm.  _Gods, I should be honored for the work I have put into maintaining the balance in King's Landing,_ Cersei thinks as she approaches Sansa in the meeting spot she chose, her personal sitting room in the east wing. Sansa manages a nod and thanks Cersei for summoning her. Whether it is in earnest or not does not matter to Cersei. She laps up the thanks and pours the queen a goblet of a lovely maroon vintage that smells of hickory, honey and cherries. Sansa raises her cup and meets Cersei's gaze as they toast to King Joffrey's health and to the health of the princes and princess.

 _Timing is of utmost importance._ Cersei asks her daughter-in-law about the children, about the dealings in court and whether she has been sewing any special projects. Sansa's answers are cordial but short.  _She is witholding from me. Either she wishes to speak offences or she truly has a challenge for me to assist her in overcoming. I will unearth the truth._ She pours the girl another serving from the flagon. Then another.

Cersei's mind and sharp green eyes wander. With a strange sort of satisfaction, she notices Sansa's curves are melting together like a snowdrift kissed by summer's lips. No longer do they display themselves as an impressive hourglass. She has excess girth round her middle and her breasts are growing enormous.  _It is no wonder Joff has grown distant, no wonder he is always off with that beloved crossbow and those swords. A wife should stay trim for her lord husband, particularly when he is as special as my boy._ She decides she has held her tongue long enough.

"It seems you are wearing ill-fitted gown, darling. Did the seamstresses take the wrong measurements?" chirps Cersei, inclining her head and painting on a serene, dazed sort of smile. "The ball you have been working so hard to perfect is coming up, is it not? Shouldn't you be wearing something a bit more suited to your..." She pauses with skill and smiles. "Stately frame?" she offers.

Sansa is no longer the little dove she once was. Her blue eyes flicker into stone. She may still be weak but she has acquired a backbone, especially after she has had some to drink. "You sound like Joffrey," she mutters, and Cersei notes that she clenches the goblet in her fist.

 _You sound like Joffrey._ Cersei finds this exciting, but she dislikes Sansa's tone. As though it is something one would not wish upon oneself. Cersei  _wants_ to sound like Joffrey. After all, she made him. She created him by imagining the most perfect and brilliant son she could give life to, and he appeared, flawless, in her womb.

Cersei's left flaxen eyebrow raises like the sun over the horizon. "And what pray tell does  _that_  mean?" she asks. Her tone is patient and good-natured while her eyes pick the Northern girl apart like the flies that eagerly betroth themselves to Joffrey's kills.

"Pardon me," Sansa says, bowing her head, "but it has not been easy as of late. Not between myself and his grace." Cersei's ears perk up. She is fully attentive to Sansa's words now. "You know how he is. He is not satisfied with me, he still references my traitor's blood and my shortcomings. Even now. He holds it over our children. He wishes me to have more sons yet he does not understand the toll it has taken on my body and he condemns me for that as well-"

"I had three children and I maintained my form," Cersei interjects immediately. "If you should require assistance, my love-"

"Joffrey has seen to that," Sansa responds, and there is a slight annoyance in her voice. It is clear the wine has made her bolder and Cersei is both revolted and excited by her admissions. "This week, I am actually allowed to eat and drink wine instead of water. Sometimes, he is not so kind." There is a pause and Sansa goes on, her voice practiced. "But of course, his grace is as kind to me as I deserve."

 _You still know nothing about this game. You are utterly obvious and utterly ungrateful,_ Cersei muses, yet she reaches her hands forward and takes Sansa by her soft, long fingers. "My Joffrey is difficult," she says with a fond look. "This we both know, my girl. But he is an individual, a fierce and unique spirit, and you must know how to please him if you are going to thrive. I have told you this for years now-"

"He hurts me. He wishes me dead," says Sansa plainly and then she begins to speak quickly. "Cersei, I mean no harm toward your son. You must believe that I have tried. He is much improved in ways but then other times, he gets this... This  _look_ on his face, and I know he desires to kill me. It is as if he cannot help it. I have tried to please him. You have no idea. I really have."

Cersei purses her lips. She knows that Joff can be distant and cruel when it comes to his queen. She has seen his punishments, seen the look on his face when Sansa displeases him ( _the furrowed dark blond brow, the enraged frown, the crossed arms and pursed lips_ ). She has witnessed the two of them, cold and quiet over breakfast and she knows they have spent the night quarreling. Of course, this is not Joffrey's fault.  _The heart can be a strange organ_ , Cersei knows this for certain. And Joffrey may love Sansa, but she is not the right sort of woman to make him happy. Cersei kept him happy for thirteen years before he sat atop the iron throne. Everything changed between them then, yet Cersei is convinced she has what it takes to improve their marriage. She still knows Joffrey better than anyone else in the wide, terrible world. And it only took Sansa  _months_  to turn him into an unhappy boy.

Sansa married Joff an innocent girl with foolish idealistic ideas about knights and grand deeds and songs, and Cersei knows she must not be keeping him satisfied. How could she? She likely does not please him the way a woman should cater to her lord husband. Cersei has tried desperately to find out this information from Joff but he has only sneered at her and declared that Sansa serves her purpose. He is likely embarrassed. Cersei has not addressed this idea for quite some time, but she has had enough wine and is bored and bold.

"Perhaps there is something the matter with your approach," Cersei says, hoping this hint is enough for Sansa to grasp her meaning. She studies the red-haired queen and takes a long swallow from her golden goblet.

"My approach?" Sansa asks, and she averts her eyes. "You think I ought to be treated like one of those women he pays to have mauled before his eyes?"

"They are whores. Nothing more. And he is the king," Cersei says firmly, suddenly feeling defensive.  _He would not have to do such strange things if he was not married to a dull, mild-mannered cow._

Sansa's voice grows louder and she clenches the goblet harder still. "He has them  _killed_ sometimes, has he told you? He tells me all about it, you know. He tells me about their faces, their screams. He laughs and then he climbs atop me and has his way with me!"

Cersei feels a hot flush claim her cheeks. She feels strange imagining such a scene. She does not want to think about Joffrey behaving so. She wishes to hear about him making love, passionate and pretty and languid love, eating lush fruits and desserts, riding his queen with desire in his gorgeous eyes.  _Not this awful filth._

Sansa goes on, her voice warbling. "How am I to please him when he treats me so? I have tried, Cersei, but hurting me is what he desires most-"

Cersei does not think. She acts instead, quickly rising and falling to Sansa's side. She musses her hair and reassures her that it will be fine. "I want to help you," she says, "and I want to help my son. I will speak to him on this matter.  _Carefully-_ " she affirms with a nod as she sees Sansa's eyes widen in horror. "I will not breathe a word to him about our meeting."

"Please, Cersei. I should have said nothing," Sansa replies softly, likely recognizing the position she has put herself in.  _You poor, simple girl,_ Cersei muses as she pets the queen's crimson locks. They finish the flagon together, Sansa eying Cersei with care the rest of the evening.

_Fortunately for you, I will say nothing to Joff. You see, I know in my heart that you are the problem and you alone. He needs a new queen, a queen who will serve him in all ways. Such a woman would benefit the kingdom and stave Joff's hunger for cruelty. I gave you a chance, dove, and you have fluttered with broken wings for eight years. I will see your methods with my very eyes and then I will determine just how to move you out of my son's bed and his heart._

When Sansa is suddenly summoned to Joff's quarters, she smoothes her amber gown and gives Cersei a curtsy. She stumbles a bit but regains composure, her face a knot of worry.

"Remember, your grace," Cersei begins with a soft smile, "he is your king. Let him have you, and give him pleasure."

Sansa nods slowly and departs, her train flowing out behind her. Cersei gives her a good head start and then quietly slips into the hallway, taking care to go unnoticed. This is another game she is good at playing, for she and Jaime met in secret for years. Cersei knows her way through the corridors, the lesser known hiding places, the trick doors and revolving walls .

There is one such wall at the end of the royal chambers, this Cersei knows from the nights with Robert that ended with him passing out mid-fuck, granting her time to steal away and see her true lover. She and Jaime would connect behind the wall of Robert's room, trying to hold back their chortles and moving to the rhythm of the drunk former king's tremendous stores. On quiet toes, she darts toward the secret place, reaching the door of the ajoining room and narrowly avoiding the keen eye of Clegane who is posted up as per usual at Joff's door.

She closes the door quietly with much effort and the lock  _clicks_ when she turns it. She holds her breath and moves toward the far wall. There are voices. They are not rowing, only speaking, back and forth. Her son is talking loudly, and Cersei can hear Sansa's murmured responses.  _Hold your own, girl, or you will be gone within the year. I will make it so,_ Cersei thinks, and presses her hands softly to the smooth wood. It has obviously not been used in some time and Cersei has to shift her weight against it, her breasts and hips working with her fingers, until finally it slides and turns. She grits her teeth when it creaks around, but she is far enough removed and on the complete opposite side of the vast sleeping quarters, and so neither Sansa nor Joff turn at the noise. They are preoccupied. Cersei puts the toe of her right boot between the walls and watches in interest, hoping to catch Sansa behaving in a way that does not suit her perfect boy.

Sansa is bare-breasted. Her hair hangs down her back and her hands are clasped together as she speaks. "Please, Joff," she is saying, and she unclasps the back of her dress, letting it sink to the floor. Her shapely thighs and curved stomach look soft and creamy pink in the flickering candlelight. Joffrey's shadow paces against the curtains of the four-poster as he crosses toward the chaise lounge to fill his cup with wine. Cersei catches his expression as he moves and notes there is a curling and proud sneer upon his pouty lips. "Would if you could look upon my face tonight. I am sore from last night's doings."

Joffrey stares away from her and smiles into the distance before gulping down his wine and refilling it almost instantly. "Tell me about the soreness," he says lazily, running one long finger around the rim of the cup and licking it with a flick of his tongue.

"You bruised me. You bruised my thighs and my... my backside," she says with some reserve. Her timidity is slightly humiliating to Cersei, who wonders how Joffrey can deal with this sort of conversation on a nightly basis.

"Backside. So _proper_ ," he says in a sensual rich growl like the lion he is. "Where else does it hurt?" he asks, slyness curling around his tone like smoke.

Sansa lets out a whimper. "You know," she whispers.

He still stares away from his queen, but moves one hand to the front of his breeches. When he speaks next, his breath is a bit labored. "I wish for you to bend over on my bed. Let me see where I've hurt you."

Cersei is unsure of where this is going, though she has the sense to see it appears Sansa was not entirely wrong. She can see the flicker of amusement and lust in her son's eyes even from her place across the room and she winces slightly as her son begins to disrobe, unbuttoning his trousers. 

 _You can leave,_ she tells herself.  _Leave and begin to ruminate on a petition for a queen who can hold her tongue, or else hold her own with him instead of crying and complaining._

But she lingers, hoping to see Joffrey prove himself and show her that he can take a woman just like his father has taken her, again and again, with tender care and chivalry.

"If I show you, can we lie together the way I so desire, Joffrey? My king? I have wanted to gaze upon you-"

"Your words are sweet yet I do not hear your movements. Let me see where you ache," snaps Joff, and then finishes his wine in one long swallow, his throat flexing as he does so. He kicks his boots off. Sansa turns around with haste and flexes her arse out into the air. Cersei sucks in air through her teeth.

The girl's plump buttocks is covered in welts and marks, all blue and black. Cersei has asked to be slapped and smacked, but has never received bruising like this from a man's efforts. She is not certain how to work her mind around this image. There is nothing erotic about the way Sansa is posing so unwillingly against the silken crimson coverlet, her shy little face peering through her mane of hair. Slightly agrieved, Cersei instead looks back to her son, wondering if she should exit before she is sorry.

Joffrey is pulling his breeches down now, exposing his small-clothes and an obvious bulge. He slams the goblet down, making Sansa jump a little, and pulls his black tunic up over his head. Cersei continues to watch as he becomes fully naked in the dancing candlelight.  _Gods,_ she thinks,  _when did you become such a man?_

It is true. She can hardly recall the last time she saw him like this. It was ten years ago at least, before he got sour with her and demanded his privacy, before he kicked her out of his affairs. He has changed much.

Gone are the skinny boy-legs and scrawny chest, the childishly thin middle and jagged shoulders. He was always pretty and now he has grown into himself. She'd noticed before, sure, but it is all apparent in his nude state. He is broader, thicker in the neck and biceps, and he is fit. He is lean yet not immaturely so, and his hips no longer protrude like an awkward foal's hind legs do at birth. Her eyes wander to his manhood, lengthy and stiff and surrounded by light flaxen hairs, and she can scarcely believe she used to bathe this man before her, this gorgeous and strong king.

Cersei forgets herself completely as she watches her son stride to Sansa and admire her welts. His back is lean and his buttocks firm.  _Is there anything wrong with you? What a man, Gods, what a man._  He runs his hands over Sansa and then digs his nails into her thighs, making her cry out. Cersei imagines his hands on her own thighs, his sharp nails, his touch. Her knees weaken a bit.

"Spit on my cock. Get it ready for you. Unless you enjoyed it the way it was last night," Joffrey smirks.

"Please," Sansa says, "Not that. Not that way tonight."

"Mouth. Cock. Now," Joff says coolly, and pulls her toward him, shoving her head down. Sansa does what she is told, gulping and spitting the long and thin member. Joffrey lets out a sardonic chortle before he grips her neck, shoves her head down to the bed and immediately enters her ass with some effort, grunting and panting. Sansa screams. Once adjusted, he sets to moving in and out of her ragged and rough.  His moans are frantic and manic, echoing off the walls.  Cersei blushes, realizing how much he enjoys it. He slaps her rump hard.

"It  _hurts,_ Joffrey! It aches! Please!"

"Beg for it," he jeers at her. "Beg me!"

"Please don't hurt me! Please! All I wish is to make you feel good- I wish you to ride me, Joff, please, please, your grace,  _ow,_ I- _no_!"

Cersei purses her lips. She doesn't much like the way Sansa sounds as she protests, like a she-cat being ravaged by a merciless tom, and she does not care much to see her son taking his wife in such an animalistic way. She wants to leave yet she feels rooted to the spot.

"You wish to look upon me?" he shouts, breathing heavily and gasping for air. "Look upon my fine face and admire me?" he chides, and he slams himself into her arse again.

 _"I-yes-_ yes, Joff, please, I want to look upon you!" Sansa squeals, and Joffrey pulls out of her at once. He grabs her hips, twists her around, and bites her on the neck. Cersei can see Sansa's face now as she moans in pain. It is a disquieting thing to look upon, as the discomfort is apparent and there is no love, no passion. "It hurts," she cries out.

"Shall I bite harder?" he teases, as if she is in on the joke. "Or should I ride you?"

"Please get on top of me, please, NOW!" Sansa shouts, "please! NOW!"

With that, Joff throws his queen to the crimson bed and overpowers her, entering her cunt and thrusting in hard. Sansa coos out inaudible, strangled praise as he continues to gnaw on her neck. He grips her hands and holds her down to the mattress, his testicles slapping as he rides her. The raw yet methodical fury of their sex is intriguing to Cersei and she watches Joff's body as he moves his cock in and out of the Stark girl. He bites her hard on the collarbone. She screams like a sheep during the spring slaughter. Cersei wonders if Joffrey would be like this with any woman, or if he holds a special sort of obsession still with torturing Queen Sansa.

 _Look how she merely lies there like a satchel that is only used to be filled and discarded. My darling needs a real woman, a contender to his fire,_ thinks Cersei as Joff slows his rhythm, his back flexing and unflexing as he goes. He coils around her, snake-like, hungry, moving in slowly. They finally rock to the same rhythm. And then there is a new sound spilling from Sansa's lips, something akin to elation.

She rises up to meet him, her long, moon white legs wrapping around his back. Joff caresses her hair and Sansa purrs a sort of agreement to his touch. He laughs and speeds up again. Cersei shivers, imagining Jaime's hand and prick doing the same to her.  _How long has it been since I took a lover who matched me in looks, wit and skill?_ she wonders, and feels her bud swell.  _This_ is how she imagined her son doing his husbandly duties, with care and with spark.

"Yes, Joffrey, yes," Sansa pants, and it is obvious she at least half-means it. There is nothing dangerous in this embrace, nothing unsightly, and Cersei finds herself enjoying the look of them together much like she once did was Sansa was a dear young thing. They move well together now, meeting each other thrust for thrust.

"Legs down," Joffrey commands after several minutes. His voice is heavy and thick with want. "I am soon, Sansa! Be ready. Be ready, my queen. My sweet."

Sansa obeys her king and lets herself lie back once more, moving her hands to his shoulders and gripping him there. Cersei cannot see her expression, only the bright hair, but Sansa continues to moan placidly as Joffrey twists inside her.

"My lady, my sweet lady, you'd let me do anything, wouldn't you,  _wouldn't you_! _"_  Joffrey yells out and then he seizes up before grunting and gasping for air. He seems to come for a long time, gliding upon Sansa as an orchid does on pond water, pressing his forehead to hers. "Another son for me. I just know it," he says with triumph, pulling out of her. Cersei smiles with pride.

"Thank you, my king," Sansa says quietly. "That was very good." She reaches up to touch his face but he smacks her away and rises, stretching and yawning. Sansa appears to know what this means and she gets up to collect her clothing from the rug. It seems moving takes some effort for her.

When Joffrey turns and flips his chin-length curls back, Cersei breathes in. There is something familiar about him as he ambles back to the chalice beside the chaise. There is a cockiness, a self-assured way that she recognizes at once. Then, she realizes who she sees.

She has been looking for Jaime everywhere for the past months and here he is. Not hiding in clouds or the rain or her dreams. He has been  _right_ here, in the castle. She has been searching and she has finally found him, years younger again and glorious. A wetness grows inside Cersei's gown as she gawks. And then, the gorgeous golden-haired king snaps at Sansa to leave, and he is her Joffrey again.

Cersei blushes.  _My son,_ she reminds herself,  _he is my son._

She decides she is tired and perhaps that she has drunk too much, that she is only being silly and wistful and unrealistic. She waits for Sansa to leave and tries to shake the desire she feels as she watches her boy empty another goblet of wine before collapsing in a satisfied heap in his bed.

When Cersei returns to her chambers, she vows she will put this out of her mind after tonight.  _But for now,_ she thinks, only feeling slightly bad, and folds her hands inside her gown. Between her legs, she is warm and so excited that her hand comes out coated in dampness when she is spent. She curls up with a silken pillow and convinces herself nothing is out of the ordinary. After all, it is Jaime she wants and not Joffrey. She knows she will forget this in the light of morning.

* * *

She wakes with her hand between her thighs. Nothing can shake the images of last night from her brain. This carries through the day, through the week, the month. She tries to forget the feeling, but it is like those damned Targaryen dragons. It grows like wildfire does, dangerous and fast, until it consumes Cersei. Sometimes, she imagines it is only because her son looked so like Jaime when he was naked and hard, and she tries to tell herself it is only their resemblance that is mystifying to her. Inside, though, inside she knows.

Cersei becomes very aware of Joffrey's movements, much like she was when he was a boy and he only belonged to her.  Except now she sees him with the eyes of a woman setting her sights on a suitor. She is enamored by every part of him with eagerness as if he is new: his slightly fanged front teeth, his hair fluttering, his boots  _thunking_  on the castle floor when he enters for meals and stretches out, entoxicated, into his seat at the end of the table. She cannot shake the visual of his flexing shoulders and hard cock, moving in and out so slowly of Sansa. Except in Cersei's mind, she can only remember that it was she in the royal marriage bed instead of that silly Stark. Sansa does not deserve Joff. She never did and she never will.

She especially enjoys watching Joffrey sit on the iron throne, slumped back with one leg over the arm. His cruelty has lessened in court over the years, replaced by a bored disregard for it all. Sansa sits beside him and does much of the finagling, and Joffrey carries out the punishments and sentences through long yawns.

Nearly a month past her night on the other side of her son's chambers, Cersei watches him as Sansa speaks to a pleading farmer who is looking to buy back land that was seized. Joff sneers and plays with his curls, completely uninterested in the scene before him.  _You are better than this sort of issue, my son,_ Cersei thinks,  _you are a force of great power. This is wasting your skill._

As if Joffrey has heard her thoughts, he looks up suddenly and they lock eyes, dazzling emerald on dazzling emerald. Cersei makes a careful roll of her eyes to the ceiling, heart pounding in her chest. He smirks back at her and leans back, long-legged and extravagant. This is more than he has given her in so long and her want for him grows.  _Come back to me, my love. I am the only woman you need,_ she thinks.  _You may be my son but you are also so much more than that. You are powerful and handsome and everything I have needed. I created you._

_I created you. For myself._

Cersei reckons this is what being in heat feels like.

Her cunt pounds.

* * *

Cersei Lannister is not a patient woman, nor is she used to waiting for pleasure. To pass the time and ease her impatience, she drinks more than usual and laments her difficult situation. On one hand, Jaime might return and she supposes he'd never understand if she took Joff as a lover.

 _He wouldn't, would he?,_ she thinks with disdain, nostrils flaring.  _He's left me again and he expects me to be on my own, keeping this kingdom in order while he does Gods know what on the other side of the map!_ Part of her knows that Jaime would never be untrue but another part is hateful, lonely, scorned. She promised herself she would never feel that way for a man and she refuses to let her love of her brother get the best of her.

"I am not weak," she repeats in the mirror again and again. "I am my father's daughter. I overcame a hideous marriage to a drunk fool, I put my beautiful boy on the throne, I did off with my foul brother and overcame that old wench's prophecy, and I have held everything in my sights together like a good woman should." The next words do not fall from her lips. They only float through her mind in a frenzied slur:

_I deserve this._

_I deserve it._

_I deserve to fuck the king._

* * *

Another month later, as Joffrey predicted, Sansa's middle swells. Cersei is both amused and disgusted by how fertile she is. If she were a sow, she'd be worth a fair sum of money.  _Wouldn't that be sweet,_ she thinks,  _for then when she has had enough piglets she could be sold for slaughter and this problem would be done with._ She wrinkles her nose, watching in revolt as Sansa takes a second helping of the creamy mushroom bisque before her on the oaken table. Sansa has gotten fat again in so short a time it is a wonder Joffrey can even stand to look at her.

Cersei knows from the past four pregnancies that her son has no interest in Sansa when she is with child. He sends her off to solitude near the middle months, only caring to make certain she is eating and sleeping precisely when he says. He does not bed her. He told Cersei before little Robert was born that he tried bedding Sansa when she was pregnant the first time. He told her it disgusted beyond anything else to see Sansa like that. He said he only wanted to envision his wife they way he had met her when they were first betrothed.

 _She was the first beautiful girl I had every seen,_ Joffrey had told her then. How it had burned her.  _But my love,_ she had thought to herself as he rambled on,  _you have seen me every day of your life since you were born. Did you never notice me? I notice you._

She notices him now as they dine, silverware clinking and flagons pouring aplenty.  _Likely he needs a release. He must,_ Cersei thinks, studying her boy's face.

"Mother, did you hear her? Repeat yourself for my mother, Sansa. You speak so softly, I sometimes wonder if cutting your tongue out of your head would make any real difference at all." The loud, cold tone is music to Cersei's ears and she snaps her head away from Sansa to look toward her son. He's sneering from the end of the table, brandishing his goblet in one fist and a roasted chicken leg in the other. He is wearing a cloak of golden velvet and his hair is drawn back so that his long nose and cheekbones are accentuated.

"Forgive me," Sansa says, raising her volume. "I only asked if you have selected a dish to gift toward the people of King's Landing in support of the charity feast-"

"Ah, yes," Cersei says, smirking. "The  _charity_  feast. Tell me again how this will benefit the realm?"

Joffrey snorts and bites the drumstick, sucking the meat off in one go. He tosses the spent bone to his plate and licks the space between his fingers. Cersei feels oddly stimulated watching this action, and she studies the thin layer of grease smeared over his full lips before he wipes them clean. Inside her skirts, her clit twitches as Joffrey speaks. "We are to give out food at the end of the evening. Sansa believes she is going to venture into the city and assist the kingsguard in distribution. I told her she might as well ask to be stoned to death." He snickers, eyes rolling, as he makes for another helping of roast fowl.

Cersei plants a kind smile on her lips as she surveys Sansa. "My generous queen. What a ruler you are. You have such good intentions although our king does speak the truth. Such an event will only call for rioting. The unfortunates are not like us. You give them food once and they shall come to expect it. Joff is correct. This idea is absurd and you carry his child in you-"

"We are doing it, Mother," says Joffrey in a tone of utmost amusement, filling his cup with more of the crisp summer red. He meets her eyes and she feels a small shudder as he smiles darkly. "After all, my queen must stay occupied. Besides, it will look good, will it not?"

 _What fat, poisonous spider has crawled into the ear of my brilliant boy?_ Cersei thinks with annoyance. Sansa does not even have the backbone to look satisfied with the king's compliance. She merely drops her head and studies her soup as if it bears some oracle.   _Keep looking, Wolf Girl.  All your family are dead and the North is merely a sad smudge on every parchment where once dwelled a map of that barren, rotten place.  Keep.  Looking._

"Of course, my idea for what to give out does not please Sansa a bit," Joffrey goes on, smacking his lips as he works at his food. "I said we should broil up all of my brother's precious pets. Oh and perhaps any livestock that's got ill, if we have any. That way, we are not wasting any of our resources. And perhaps I can wipe out half the population from using foul meat. The food shortage problem would be solved." He breaks into jovial laughter. Some wine from his goblet slops onto the tablecloth.

" _Joffrey,"_ Sansa says suddenly in a curt way. He bristles. "We are  _not_  going to kill Tommen's animals. I do not want to hear of that again! You scared the children the first time you said it, and I asked you! I asked you not to say such things in front of them-"

Joffrey's face darkens immediately. There are the telltale signs of his impending rage: the pinking cheeks, the raised brow, the clenched teeth stained slightly with red. Sansa does not speak out so often but when she does, Joffrey becomes the boy king he used to be, throwing fits and erupting into chaotic tantrums.

"He's  _joking_ ," Cersei puts in quickly. Joff cannot afford to be upset. He needs his strength and wits to rule, doesn't this silly cow know as much by now? She goes on, trying not to make eye contact with Joff as he rises from the table, his cloak drifting around his back. Instead, she stares at Sansa. "Your sensitivity is great. You ought to sharpen your humor, my queen."

"Tommen is your son." Sansa sounds bolder still and she holds Cersei's gaze with the cold of the old North in her eyes.  _Gods, what is wrong with her? What insanity is this?_ "And this does not bother you?"

Before Cersei can react to this obvious slight at her parenting, Joffrey seizes the carving knife from the midsection of the roast pig that sits before him and stomps the ten feet to Sansa's end of the long table. "Tommen is _my_  brother," he spits, "and I am the  _king,_ or have you forgotten?" As he walks, he stumbles slightly, and Sansa ever gingerly grips the arm rests of her chair as he puts the blade to her throat.

 _"Joffrey,"_  coos Cersei but she has lost him to his anger.

"I know you are the king," Sansa says carefully. She sounds tired. "I only wish you would not scare our children-"

" _Our_ children?" he shouts, and his eyes widen, spiraling and flashing. He pulls the knife to her abdomen and lets it rest atop her pregnant bulk. Cersei knows it is too late now. Sansa has done it, she's pulled the lion's tail again. Out of his mouth comes a frenzied snarl: "They are  _my_ children. Just as this is  _my_  child inside you. You would have none of them if it were not for my glorious seed! You would have  _none_ of this if it weren't for me! You would have no fine clothes, no gorgeous castle, nothing,  _nothing!"_

"Please-" Sansa says, and she is finally reacting with emotion. Her voice quakes as her grip hardens. "Please, my king- my love-"

"Everything in this kingdom is mine!" Joffrey shouts. "EVERY LAST THING! AND YOU WOULD DO WELL NOT TO FORGET IT!" With that, he throws the knife to the floor where it clatters beneath the table. He gives a strangled shout and exits the dining hall, slamming the door.

The queen is silent a moment before bursting into tears and cradling her front. Cersei has no patience for such a display.

Instead, she rises to follow the king. Before she goes, she gives Sansa a sharp look. "You would do well not to anger him like that," she advises. "I will absolutely not forgive you if he takes out his grievances against you on my beloved grandchildren." She leaves swiftly, her deep crimson gown flowing out behind her as she goes.

She catches up to Joffrey in the dimly lit corridor for he has stopped walking and is gripping the wall, cursing under his breath. Cersei floats to him, knowing she will make this right. She will make him see that she can keep him happy.

"My poor son," she murmurs, and he looks up to meet her eyes. The wrath fades.

He sighs and drops his hands to his sides, leaning against the wall with his shining head back. "Mother? What are you doing here?"

"You would believe I could spend another second in that room without you? You are hurting and I wish to ease your pain. I know you were only jesting. And Sansa-"

"Is never on my side as of late," Joffrey finishes, running a hand through his silky-gold curls.  _Nervously?_ , Cersei wonders. It is not like him to look distraught like this. She wishes him to swell with pride, to feel accomplishment. Not failure, as his lady wife seems to.

" _I_ am on your side," Cersei insists, "I am forever on your side. Come here, Joff. How long has it been since you let me cheer you?"   _Sansa was never on your side. Not truly.  She wanted a husband, the stupid fat cow, and she'd have settled for anyone who loved her.  You deserve far more than her._

"I am not a little boy," Joffrey says snidely. "And so you can do nothing to help me."

"Come to me. Let me try," she whispers, and she extends her arms. "Come, Joff."

He hesitates, and Cersei has a spark of worry that overrides her confidence. Has she been too forward? What if she drives him off further, and he runs fast like he used to when he was a small boy? What if he runs, runs, runs, and she can never find him again?

Then he puts out one foot, then the other, and finally steps into her embrace. She shudders slightly at his warmth and presses her cheek to his firm chest. He is so tall now, and when she wraps her arms around his back she can smell him, musky, and also sweet from wine. He feels like Jaime just enough that it does not seem so wrong.

She wants to say a thousand things to him, beautiful words and helpful tidbits of advice, but knows she must play this right. Instead she chooses silence, and pushes herself into him a bit more. Cersei understands how to embrace a man in a way that allows him to enjoy her body, and she can do it skillfully. Very carefully, she lets her head fall into the crook of his neck. She utters a sigh there.

Joffrey's shoulders tense up. "This is absurb. I am a man grown, and you-"

"I know you are a powerful and fierce king, my love," Cersei breathes onto his skin. "The most daring ruler to sit atop the iron throne. Your accomplishments are great and you are greater."

"Yes," he agrees, "yes, Mother, you  _are_ right." He relaxes and lets her hold him as she once did, slipping his arm round her back and resting his large hand on her hip. Cersei tries not to make her want for him obvious; she clenches her legs shut as her privates feel as if they are doing flips. "Thank you," he says, and she leans in a bit to let her breasts rub his chest as she pulls away.

When they break apart, she sees his eyes wander for a moment to observe her display of pert cleavage, basking in blood red velvet. "You can always come to me," Cersei says with motherly care in her voice. "You are my Joffrey."

He clears his throat then, backs up a pace, and leaves her against the wall with only wetness between her thighs.

* * *

The charity ball is not as dull as Cersei anticipated. It is far worse. Her complaints are many, and she files them away as the offences occur. To start, it is Sansa who stands to give a toast and a speech. Though the lords, ladies, and assorted guests stand and appear merry, Cersei yawns aloud at the fumbling wording, the overly saccharine phrasing in the broken-winged dove's delivery. Sansa speaks about the food shortage in King's Landing as if she is an expert, as if she rules the seven kingdoms in the stead of a king. Cersei looks to Joff for his reaction, and only sees utter boredom on his pretty face.

One upside to this event is that he looks utterly dashing, cloaked in black and Lannister red. His hair falls in perfect curls around his face, and he is wearing his shining crown atop his head. His eldest, eight year old Joffrey, and his second child, six year old Robert, sit on either side of him like young reflections. Mirrors from the past.

Joffrey slumps back against his chair as Sansa prattles on, noting her enthusiasm for helping the people of King's Landing by donating all of the dishes to the poorhouses of the city. She has everyone raise their goblets. Joffrey loudly quaffs his serving of wine before the toast is done with. Sansa purses her lips, trying to keep composure. Cersei cannot mask a grin.

For an evening completely devoted to the issue of food, the helpings and fare is paltry and below par. Sansa mentioned in her rambling speech that the courses would be simple. But this is a complete outrage. There are only three small courses: a sad sort-of heap of greenery with a few summer berries, mutton pies with gravy, and broiled beets with honey and notes of orange. Each guest receives one mutton pie. It would seem Sansa is attempting to make Joffrey look like an utter fool. Who conducts such an event?

 _Surely we could have hosted a grander affair. This is an absolute mockery of my son's reign,_  Cersei thinks bitterly as she picks at the pie. She sends a longing glance over to the long table that has been stacked with all of the food the castle cooks and courtiers have brought for the unfortunates. Even from where she is sitting, she spies a high pile of roasted Cornish hens, a platter filled with plump rolls, and many wheels of cheeses.  _The poor are too used to their bowls of brown, their slop. How will they stomach this fare? It is a waste of my son's resources, an insult to our guests. We should be served_ that _food._

The wine flows freely, though, and so she forgets her hunger by savoring cup after cup. Swilling the red liquid nearly makes her forget the pang of hunger she feels. She is not used to such humiliating suppers. A proper feast at one of King Joffrey's affairs should include ten courses at the very least. This is a disgrace, Cersei keeps thinking, a real misuse of the kingdom's time. Across the table from her, Joffrey is picking his teeth and ignoring the boys as they squabble.  _He must be vexed and hungry. And my poor little lions, them too._ Even the children cannot stand this tedious rubbish. Sansa sits several chairs from him, attending to the Tully-haired twins, little JoAnna and Jaime. Tommen's place beside Cersei is empty, which is only too typical. Tommen never joins large groups anymore, not when Joff is present.

 _My poor scared little kitten boy,_  she thinks with a sad smile,  _you surely are the runt of the litter. My Joffrey was too strong, too great. He would not stop until he knocked you and Myrcella out of his way._  She finds herself looking at her eldest again and he catches her staring this time. He raises his goblet with a sardonic curl of his lip. He is beyond handsome tonight. Cersei's heart flutters; she is a young girl in love again. She leans in, wishing to have a word, but she is rudely interrupted.

Sansa appears behind the king, looking irate. She is clutching little Robert's hand. Her gown looks like it might burst from the girth of her engorged form. "Your grace," she whispers. She is quiet, yet her voice shows displeasure. She snatches a large knife out of little Joffrey's hand. "The least you can do is watch these two whilst I attend to the others and our guests. Yet I look over and I see him waving a knife around. He could have hurt his brother! Did you even notice?"

Cersei purses her lips. Sansa should know better than to scold Joff like this in front of company or otherwise.  _She is lucky. Joffrey is a far better father than Robert was. Look how he sits amongst his babes so closely, so attentively. Robert was too concerned with flitting about the room, trying to find the most fuckable young twit he could. Joffrey could be at the brothel. He could be embarrassing her as Robert did to me nearly every day of the week!_

"I noticed," Joffrey answers shortly. "He can touch knives. He is near nine years of age."

"Yes,  _Father_  lets me," the boy agrees with a sweet smirk on his gorgeous face, flicking his curls out of his eyes. "I am practicing. Next hunt, I will go with him and he will teach me to skin animals." Cersei could kiss his sweet cheeks. How like his father he is, how precocious and forward.

"Skin..." Sansa trails off, then address the king again. "Joffrey, he should not be skinning anything, let alone nearly skinning his brother-"

"I  _didn't_ skin him," the eight-year old whines.

"See?" Joffrey asks dully. He is looking at no one, leaning back and observing the ceiling. "He did not."

"He nearly did!" argues the six-year old, echoing his mother.

"Liar!" shouts little Joffrey. "I'll rip your tongue out-"

" _Do not talk to your brother that way,"_ Sansa snaps.

Joffrey drains his goblet and sets it down. "Sansa, I will handle this," he says, and turns to little Robert. "When he speaks to you like that, tell him what you will do to get revenge on him. If he waves a knife at you, take one yourself and tell him you will gut him. Honest to the Gods, cease this weakness."

"Ha. You are weak," says little Joff with a sneer.

"Yes, Father," answers Robert in a small voice before loping off to Tywin.

Sansa covers her mouth. "We need to discuss this later, your grace," she finally says.

"Later? We will discuss nothing later. I plan to drink this entire flagon and forget you ever held this terrible ball. I'll be taking my leave soon-"

"Your leave?" she asks, strawberry brow beginning to pulse. "Joffrey, I need you for the ending toast, I need you to stay through the dancing. I would not request you to dance with me, though I would enjoy if you would take JoAnna for a dance on the floor. I believe the lords and ladies would-"

"If you request my presence," he interrupts, "then I demand to be fed an actual feast. Who serves beets and shrubs at the king's table?" He raises his voice. "Someone fetch a handmaiden. I demand a platter of cheese and kippers. And where is the roast meat? I wanted venison tonight." Cersei smiles approvingly. She knows him so very well. "And I'd rather dance with my Hound than you."

Sansa sounds like she is trying to be very patient. "Joffrey, tonight is not about grandeur and our own enjoyment. We are eating a small meal to make a point about the shortage-"

"Your point was made. But I am the  _king,"_ Joffrey smiles at her, arching his eyebrow. "I still hunger." Sansa sniffs the air, looking a bit perturbed. "You would  _dare_ tell your king not to eat of his own castle's stores? I decide what I wish to eat and I get what I wish."

"Joffrey, please! Tonight is not about thirty course meals and troughs of mead-"

"Do you take issue with my habits?" he asks, but he is grinning slightly. It is obvious he is a bit drunk or else he'd be angry. "Perhaps I  _should_ drink a trough. Can you see to that, my sweet and kind wife?" His tone is laced with venom but his eyebrows flex playfully at her.

"Between this and your way of handling the snipping between our sons, I have no idea what to say to you," Sansa bursts out.

Joffrey whips his head around and grabs her wrist. "You know, Sansa, my brother and I argued similarly. I have experience with such fights. You have  _nothing_ to teach my children on this subject. After all, your siblings are all dead and have been for years." He laughs. "I saw to that." He lets her go.

Slow and chiming music begins to play on the floor before them and several tables begin to rise to seek partners. Sansa says nothing, though she blushes a hot red. Cersei takes a long gulp of wine to hide her amused reaction as Sansa retreats.  _The fat and naive wolf has fallen short again. Do you not see by now, Stark girl? My son is a dangerous and handsome lion. He will always win. He is your king. He is your ruler. Do not pretend as though you make the rules here. You may be attempting to win the affection of the people of King's Landing but I see the real you, a weak and pitiful fool. Like the rest of the Stark brood._

"Quite the exciting evening. Is it not, Mother?"

She stiffens slightly, feeling a warmth between her legs stir as she tightens them together inside her skirts. Joffrey has dropped into the empty chair beside her and he is whispering into her ear. His breath is hot and feels like a tickle, a tease. She gathers herself and turns her head slowly to smile at her firstborn boy. He is smiling darkly and his eyes flash as she gazes upon him. This is the first time he has sought her out in months. She exhales very slowly, resting her hand on the knee of her silky maroon gown. She chooses her words carefully, though her mind is already a bit fuzzy from her drink.

"I am very proud of your queen, my son," Cersei says sweetly into Joffrey's ear, and she inclines her head so that her lips rest very near his cheek. "She has gathered much food for the people of King's Landing. Of course, she has forgotten  _one_  issue."

He refills his cup and to her happiness, hers as well. "You should be grateful I am serving us. Should we chance to wait, we'd never be refreshed. There have been scarcely any handmaidens in the past hour." They lightly clink their goblets together. "Now, Mother. What was your idea?" he asks with a smile. From Joff's tone, it is obvious he knows she has something amusing to say. He is watching her, listening fully like he used to years ago.

Cersei runs a hand through her silky locks, cocking her head and smiling back at him. She is aware she looks well tonight. Her bodice is revealing enough that her Lannister pendant can be seen twinkling between her breasts, yet she still looks the picture of refinement. She leans in, determined to make him notice. "The poor eat mostly vegetation. Potatoes. Broths. Broiled roots."

He flares his nostrils. "And that concerns me how?" He knocks back his wine again and refills his cup.

"They have a taste for the bland," Cersei goes on, and she copies her son, letting the lush notes of honey and summer drift down her throat. He gives her another serving from the flagon. "The poor might appreciate your lady wife's efforts, but the food will only hurt them. Did you see the offerings? Rich cheeses and sausages and the like?" She clicks her tongue and sips her wine, aware of the way her words are spilling out so freely. "The food will make them sick. They are not used to such fare."

"A good point," observes Joffrey, a smirk flickering on his thick lips. "Are suggesting I give the ending toast, advising to inform the poor they can dig for their own plants and roots? Is this your brilliant plan?"

Cersei titters. "That would certainly be practical," she cooes. He laughs, that biting and exciting sound Cersei knows so well. She cannot help herself, and finds her hand moving off her own knee and slipping onto Joffrey's. She wonders if she has made an ill-timed move but Joff merely sits back, leaning on her shoulder a bit. "We should gift the commonfolk shovels and hoes, instead of food." They twitter together.

"Father!" comes a tiny voice. It is little JoAnna. She is a pretty thing, likely similar to Sansa when she was four years of age. Her cheeks are rosy and her red hair thick and long. Tonight, she wears a gown of black and gold, and she twirls for Cersei and Joffrey.  _Sweet little doll._ Cersei loves all of her son's children, though she is unashamed to admit that Joff and Robert are her favorites. They are Lannister lions through and through. Joanna and Jaime are sweetlings, but they take after Sansa's side far too much. "Father!" She tugs on Joff's thick cloak, a look of affection in her wide blue eyes.

"Not now," Joffrey says curtly, refilling his goblet and draining it instantly. He smirks at Cersei and waves the flagon. She nods and he serves her more. Cersei rubs a very slow circular pattern on her son's knee. His leg jolts up so slightly, Cersei notices it as an afterthought. But he does not move.

"What is it, my pet?" Cersei beams, holding out an arm. JoAnna readily clamors into her embrace.

"I want my father to dance with me."

"I do not dance with children," Joffrey sneers. Cersei continues to rub his knee, gently and carefully. He leans back a bit further. Lazily, he leans toward Cersei, his shoulder bumping up against hers, and flicks his daughter's cheek. "Go find your great-grandfather. He adores dancing."

For some reason, this is hysterical to Cersei. She snickers and Joff joins in. Tywin has long since lost her respect ever since he began to direct criticism toward Joffrey and blamed her parenting. Now, he believes Sansa has better strategic maneuvers in court.  _He is too old, too stupid. He does not see that she is not at all strategic, only a bird obsessed with being loved by everyone in her path._ She brushes back JoAnna's hair. "Your father has only two obligations for dancing," she offers kindly. "He must dance with his lady wife, if he sees fit. And he must also dance with his lady mother.  _If_ he sees fit," she adds, throwing Joffrey a little twitch of a smile. She sets JoAnna free to run off as the girl is squirming.

" _You_ wish a dance?" Joff asks quizically, nudging her in a playful fashion. Cersei's gut squirms. "What am I, twelve?"

"No, you are a man, and you are also a positively grand dancer. Though as your queen is not so well-matched, I have noted you do not take to the floor as much as you once did," Cersei says appraisingly. "Would it really be too far-fetched to ask the king of Westeros to have one dance with his mother? And then I shall reveal my idea concerning the poor and their food." She knows now she is well past drunk. Her voice wobbles and she feels warm, and alive, and very alluring. She feels like she is sitting with teenage Jaime, Jaime before he found honor and lost his fire.

He does not answer for a moment, and she clasps his knee, then slides her hand off. They sit in silence and have another goblet each before Joffrey flips his long spun-gold hair out of his face and smirks at her, holding out a ringed hand. "Well," he says. "Let us dance."

 

* * *

TO BE CONTINUED

 

 


End file.
